POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
THE HOUSEMOTHER
They cling to the skirts of my spirit with their tiny, imperious clutch;
With bonds of my love they enmesh me, woven close by their satin-soft touch.
Not an hour of their clamorous waking they spare me the whole day through,
Till the weight on my wings is an anguish, and I faint for the fetterless blue.
Then, washed by the wild wind of freedom that sweeps from the heavenly steep,
I swoop from the violet spaces to hover and bless them, asleep!
I bring him his wheat-bread and honey, I run for his sandals and staff.
Though the day may have drained me, at evening I must still be his goblet to quaff.
Dear despot of love, little recks he of vigils untamed that I keep—
I, the server, who rise from my pillow, to watch him, fulfilled and asleep.
Then I toss back the hair of my spirit, bare my feet for the heavenly streams,
And range with him, lover and lover, hand in hand through the world of his dreams!
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